dance
by bottledlogic
Summary: Their story can be told through their actions. Because it has always been a slow progression of steps and counter-steps between them. Hotch/Prentiss, a non-linear story.


**A/N**: Because I'm excited about the 200th.

* * *

**dance**

* * *

...

**we ask.**

She has a ball of rubber bands on her desk, saved for those moments of restless, intense energy.

One twist. Two twists. Ten. Fifty.

The Hadley family doesn't even register spectacularly in her 'Family Annihilators - Victims' box. But it is too soon after Foyet, and they've all pitched in to help, but she is just _so tired_.

It is dark in the bullpen, too early for the majority of working people to be awake and at work. She sits in silence, save for the impatient drumming of her left foot, beating out a tattoo to a tune only she can hear.

"Prentiss."

And in this delicate time, there is still only one person who will call her by her last name.

"Sir?"

Balanced precariously, and with a twinge of humour despite the tense and paused atmosphere.

_he is no stranger._

"Prentiss, I think... No... Sorry, could you, if it's..."

She sees haunted eyes far too often; broken orbs glittering, yet at the same time, sunken and hollow glass.

"Hotch," she says gently, "Of course."

"I haven't said anything yet."

"But you will, and I'll say yes."

He glances over at her chaotically organised desk and recognises the drive and the energy artfully manifested there. There is absolutely no work-related reason for her to be in this early, and she is still piercingly searching his face, and at this charged interface, it hits him so hard that it suddenly hurts.

"Are you sure? You need to know-"

"Yes, and it's fine, I get it."

She looks up at him with hooded eyes beneath dark lashes, and whole conversations take place between the two of them.

And it is the most glorious sunrise when she sees his face soften and the corners of his mouth ghost a crooked smile.

...

**we hide.**

She tries to avoid his gaze as she makes her way over to where Reid is sitting, head buried furiously and deliberately in his book.

_the heat is almost unbearable._

And because she decides that Reid currently needs her attention more than he does, she will put off that confrontation until she feels she's at a more equal footing.

_talk for as long as you can._

Keys are tiredly tossed onto the side table, and she goes to stand in front of her window, the Washington Monument adorning the black skyline.

_do you remember what happened last year?_

Four knocks.

So she swallows and utters a hoarse greeting.

"Hey."

Intense coal black eyes stare back, cataloguing the array of bruises splashed haphazardly across her face.

"Why is it you again?"

She stares back, confused. "Are you asking me?"

His non-response is expected, and matches the painful (anguished?) expression on his face.

"Well, it was either me or Reid, and he's been through enough already. It's no big deal, really. Just looks worse than it actually is." Her light tone does nothing to assuage is concerns, his dark gaze still making her shift uncomfortably.

"I had to listen," he swallows thickly. "Dave and Morgan stopped, but I couldn't."

And that is as much a declaration as she'll get. Because, really, he didn't have to. By that stage, she had already gotten her message across.

_but we care too much._

Still, she will choose the path of denial, because hiding has always been her defence mechanism.

"Hotch, you were the supervising agent. You did what you had to do."

And he hates that she's deliberately misinterpreting his statement, but he can't blame her, because he himself has walls as high as prisons.

Stepping closer is a dangerous move, and for every step forward that he takes into her private sanctuary, she takes one back, dodging the kitchen, the lounge area.

Finally, he traps her between the kitchen counter, the whistle of the kettle marking the end of this intricate dance. Slowly, he runs his hands over her bruised arms, and she stares contemplatively, almost apprehensively at them. He rests his chin on her head, allowing her to make the move forward, and her arms (of their own volition) complete the embrace.

He almost misses her whisper.

"We can't keep doing this, Hotch."

...

**we listen.**

She invites him over after the case with Megan Kane in Dallas, because it is too late in the office, and he is punishing himself because he can't see Jack.

She doesn't expect him to come, though.

_these are slow steps forward._

He stands outside her door and listens. Chopin's Nocturne in B flat minor twists in the late air, rich and melancholic. He absorbs himself in it, eyes closed, head resting on the cold wood, allowing the melodies to intertwine itself with the emotions floating barely tangibly in his mind.

He starts abruptly when the door is pulled open, curious chocolate eyes peering up at him. Wordlessly, she gestures into her apartment, and he automatically makes a beeline for the baby grand, not seeing the small smile gracing her face.

"Do you play?"

He shakes his head wistfully, strong hands caressing the ebony body of the instrument. He looks hopefully at her, as if he is cautious of overstepping what boundaries they have put in place.

"Could you...?"

She hesitates, because this has always been her outlet for release. For herself only.

_although, if you had hoped he would come..._

Gracefully, she steps in, hands elegantly poised above the ivory and ebony keys. Eyes closed, her fingers dance of their own volition, effortlessly gliding along the keys; thundering, yet tinkering out notes of harmony and discord.

"It was one of the few things Mother and I agreed on." Her low voice breaking the air and joining the music.

And this small piece of information offered is enough for him to leave his position at the side of the piano, and sit next to her, elbows lightly touching. She continues, unfazed, though infinitely more aware of the heat beside her.

He doesn't notice the end of the piece until she gently nudges his side.

"Where are we going with this?"

_whispers, in a darkened room._

He knows, too, that the question holds far more weight than it should. They have been dancing (_since Milwaukee, wasn't it?_) these same steps, round and round a ballroom. To the people loitering on the outside, absolutely professional and _normal_. But between them, an amalgam of fire and ice pulsates, dangerously close to eruption.

She wants that explosion, the final tango, the heat of the-

"I held her hand. I stayed. She asked me how Haley could leave, and I didn't know what to say. And Jack - "

"Hotch, it's not the same. You have the job, the BAU, always have. Haley… didn't understand that, not many people do. But she does love you, and Jack knows and does too."

Right now, she is a friend (albeit, a friend in soft lighting and an emotionally charged atmosphere).

Through the pregnant pause, he stares at them - the reflection on the black of the piano creating a slightly blurred and hazed image of two searching people.

She's closed her eyes again, dark hair spilling and framing her pale face, illuminated by the dim lights both inside and outside the apartment. He wants to reach out and grasp her hand, her hair, to cup her face in his hands.

Despite her reassurances about Haley, he knows (and Haley does too) that that will never eventuate again.

_we could move on again._

"Emily."

Her eyes snap open, looking at him through the reflection.

"I do want this, whatever this is. But I do tend to drive people away, and if it hurts, then- "

And she cuts in again. "Aaron. We'll get there. Baby steps."

And he gives her a small smile, because that sounds as close to a promise as he can get.

...

**we hurt.**

There are far too many cases where they all take some sort of physical or emotional hit. Their justification is in finding solace with people who_ know_.

It starts after the case with Katie Jacobs at the shopping centre. Though considered a win in his books, he finds himself knocking on her door after visiting his peacefully sleeping son. Glass of wine in hand, she opens the door, and moments later, she's also shoved a glass in his hand.

They sit in silence, with their glasses, almost touching.

He thanks her for the wine, then quietly leaves.

(She tells herself that she understands.)

Then came Garcia's shooting, and the subsequent death of Battle. She finds herself at his apartment, with the intention of checking up on him, because that was too close a call, especially as she was watching the events unfold from a very safe distance.

She pretends it's because everyone's had a rough week, and she's simply doing the rounds on the whole team.

She stays, and they have a surprisingly light and laughter-filled time, but then it's two in the morning, and she realises exactly who she's with, so she makes up some excuse to refuse his offer to stay, and so she drives home alone.

(She doesn't check up on the rest of the team.)

And for months after that, it becomes a routine of theirs - wine, sofa, talk, the progression to physical contact, an apology to leave.

(She wants so much for it to be more.)

New York happens, and they're both dizzy after stepping off that rollercoaster. Somewhat predictably (in her mind, at least), he's managed to shut everyone out, including her. It's only after the case in Lower Canaan, after that long drive back, that he winds up at her place.

The door creaks, and a beat passes, before she carefully (_he is not the only cautious one_) winds her arms around him; initiating, yet allowing him the opportunity to decline.

He doesn't, but it's as if he hasn't made up his mind yet, hasn't fully processed.

(He does too.)

...

**we live.**

It's Rossi who figures it out first, and only because he has to return to the office after forgetting his phone. The bullpen (or rather, Emily's desk) is not Aaron Hotchner's usual workspace, even in the off-hours. He can see his two colleagues bent over files on her desk, coffee cups stacked to one side, and for anyone else, this would not be deemed unusual.

But he is much more free, and she is much more open.

Deciding that his phone (and conversation) can wait until morning, he leaves, not even having opened the glass doors through which he was privy to their moment.

And morning comes, and Rossi manages to catch the elevator up with Emily. To her credit, her face gives absolutely nothing away, years of political training making itself known. But her friend's knowing smile unnerves her, and she feels as if the cat has been let out of the bag.

Striding into Hotch's office, Rossi announces himself simply with two words.

"How long?"

Scrutinising his friend's face (for at least a minute), Hotch sighs, pen down.

"About ten months."

And Hotch wants to call Prentiss up here, if only so they can both laugh at his face.

"How did you keep it from us for that long?"

Arching a brow, he gives his old friend a look that reminds him that he should know better.

"We were going to tell the team soon, anyway. Even Strauss has some sort of inkling."

Rossi takes a few minutes to process. "So, after Foyet?"

A slight shadow crosses Hotch's face, but he nods in return.

And Rossi grins. "The team is going to love and kill you both."

...

Drinks are called later that night, and Rossi's prediction comes true, but they can't bring themselves to care. A jazz number comes on, and she tells herself how terribly clichéd this is, and she realises that she's mumbled that out loud because she can hear him quietly laughing.

He gently places his finger on her chin and tips her head back, so he can see her sparkling eyes.

"We're good, right?"

And the smile she gives in return is dazzling, eliciting his own. Because after too many years, and too many dances, they are finally on the same floor.

"Always."


End file.
